the unknown

I have always hated being made to feel less. I'm not referring to race but in my abilities. Somehow this has been woven into the fabric of what makes Pam. I'm sure if I researched this it would lead me back to some place in time where I was left out of some event I deemed important. What instantly comes to mind is the time my older siblings went to see Star Wars. This was of course in the 70's and we walked everywhere. We all started walking to the movie theater down town and I'm not tall and I was young so I couldn't keep up. They left me. I cried all afternoon. Consequently, I hate Star Wars and have never seen a single movie!

For years in so many arenas I have repeatedly tried to overcompensate for this feeling. I hate not knowing. I'm discovering more and more I am very uncomfortable in this place. It leaves me feeling small inside. It leaves me on the front porch waiting for everyone else to return from the show.

homage to my hips
by Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

I discovered this wonderful poem today. A day when my hips were on my mind. I wasn't necessarily celebrating them--until now!

Interviewed

Being interviewed reminds me of the playground and the image of me standing there waiting to be chosen for a team to play kick ball. I always wanted to yell, "I'm short but I can run really really fast!" Instead I would always stand there twiddling hoping I wasn't the last one selected. The job interview is a process I know is necessary; but I don't necessarily enjoy it. Today I decided to be as honest and as open as possible so my answers wouldn't sound canned. Well, I'm so diverse I wonder did I scare them away? They asked everything except for what I had for breakfast this morning. Who can stand rejection? No one! Who's patient enough to wait on the phone to ring? Not me! I told my mother today, "I don't have the patience of Job." (Job--job--pun not intended) I have fought for years to separate myself from that scared little clay colored girl with rust colored afro puffs standing against the wall of life, but inevitably she shows up every now and again.

Hives

Sometimes I honestly think I'm growing as a writer and then I end up back where I started. I've always hated waiting for someones approval. It reminds me of my entire childhood. I've finally slayed the big ones it's the small bites that still hurt. They nip at my ankles like dust mites. And when I look down to access the damage the red whelps sting as if enraged. Somehow no matter how hard I've tried to purge it the bitterness towards rejection flows through my veins.

Remembering 9-11

I remember the morning seemed quite normal. The clinic wasn't hectic yet. Somehow word got to us of the events marring that day and all future mornings. Immediately when my mind digested the words coming from now a borrowed radio my mind developed images of slain innocent people. I excused myself to the restroom. My stomach in knots as tears tried to wash away the visions of broken tattered bodies. Strangers to me now flooding my heart with grief. At the end of the day as I tried to return to my home on the air base, I realized our lives were forever changed in a matter of minutes. There were soldiers at the gate with loaded weapons and what through my eyes looked like a tank pointed at every car trying to enter. We all sat in our cars for hours as they searched every vehicle. The sound of airplanes would send feelings of terror through our hearts--even the crop dusters that once was as routine as a flying mosquito. I didn't loose anyone I knew personally in those attacks, but I believe we each lost some of ourselves that day. The ideology that we were safe. That the days of blood stained American soil were over. We're still searching for our enemy. Yet the question remains, at his discovery will we then somehow recapture the feeling we had that seemingly normal peaceful morning.

Birthday Wishes

No past birthday memories this year. In fact, the day went by without much fanfare. I always get perfume--that's standard. The blessing this year came through words. The words my children wrote in their cards to me. Even through the misspelled words the sentiment was still strong. I'm proud to be considered their friend (even though some say that is impossible) and I'm pleased about the light in which they view me in. In all the years I have had or may have on earth I believe this to be my greatest achievement. If I never leave another mark, I know I've left one on their souls.

Crape Myrtle

There's something special about being under the safety of your parents covering. You could almost forget you were actually an adult and revert back to seeking permission to open the refrigerator or to sleep in.

The years of battling illness has taken it's toll on my parents. Her nursing him through his illness and him resenting her for being well. Watching them grow old is hard. When I listen to their voices over the telephone time seems to stand still, but when I look at them, her sitting in her chair and him across the room in his--reality sets in.

Grow old or die. I don't think there's another option. I'm happy to still have them. The availability of their wisdom. To see the look of fulfillment whenever they see their grandchildren. To drive my daddy to the store or across town to pay his bills. Or to prepare a meal with my mother.

This place, this small Blytheville, where the crape myrtle is in full bloom, the small streets seem even smaller, is a part of who I am . The faces around town are not as familiar; but there is joy in still having a place to call home.